My Special Dinner

I’ve been waiting for this. This moment. This night. I’m not saying I’ve been waiting forever, but it feels like it.

  I’ve been nervous and on edge all day and all my colleagues at work had been looking at me strangely. Even stranger than normal, if that was possible. Some even started to avoid me when I told them what I was doing this evening, but I haven’t got time to understand why. I decided that they were just jealous, and I have no interest in that. Anyway, I was looking forward to tonight.

  The day was a blur. I’d ghosted through my duties and whispered to my friends as I mentally counted down to the hour of the evening. Excited and nervous, jittery and tense, but also, I couldn’t stop giggling to myself. I sat at the computer and laughed out loud, but no one understood why. I didn’t understand why. They looked away. I didn’t care. The hour was coming.

  The bus journey back to my flat was in slow-motion. Every traffic signal defied me and every vehicle on the road waited for my arrival before edging ahead and slowing my life even more. The rain poured, so that the reflections on the road danced and swayed like a drunkard. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and calmed myself. There was enough time. There is always enough time.

  Once back in my apartment, I felt safe, and I felt excited. Closing the door to the world outside, the noise and the rain, it felt like I was back in the sanctuary I’d made for myself. No one can laugh at me now. I quickly showered and dressed, putting on the flowered-red outfit that he’d bought me. It’s a little tight now, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I’m growing older with dignity. That’s what I keep telling myself. I actually smudged my lipstick as my hands were shaking so badly and the eyeliner was impossible to get right, but it didn’t matter. He’d seen me this way before.

  Now I stand in front of the mirror in the bedroom and think. What else do I have to do? I mentally take a list and allow it to float in front of my eyes, as I dreamily move from side-to-side, my lover enfolding me in his arms. I know he will be there for me. I look again at the list. There’s nothing missing. I remember the table is ready because I did it this morning and the food has been slow cooking all day. I just have to get it out of the oven, open the Bordeaux and sit with him. Enjoy the night with him. My love. I knew he’d return.

  I lost count of how many days and weeks and months since he went. They all melded together in heartbreak and despair. The physical pain of having to continue when your only reason for living goes away. The sadness shared by friends who encourage you to get through it, taking each step and seeing each day. They understood at first and then they stopped. I told them he would return, but they refused to believe me and at times they wouldn’t speak to me. They shunned me and spoke behind my back, but I was right, wasn’t I? He’s here. He has returned.

  Okay, I think. Now is the time. Again, I close my eyes and breath in slowly, calming my nerves and slowing down my rampant thoughts. Now is the time. One last look in the mirror and then I stride into the living-room, and there he is. He is sat where I knew he’d be sat, at the table opposite my chair, staring straight ahead, his arms by his side. He had on his dark blue suit, but it was crumpled around his body, as if he’d lost a lot of weight. I suppose that’s not surprising.  I walk to him and smile. He pretends not to notice, but I can tell he’s pleased to be here. I know he is.

  “I’m so happy to see you again my darling,” and I lean down and kiss him on his lips. It seems too forward after all of this time, and I momentarily wonder if I’d made a mistake, but he says nothing, so I relax. His face has a curious mischievousness, and I put my hand on his cheek and stroke it, brushing away a strand of hair. “You look wonderful.”

  I stand back and look at him. He’s back and he’s mine. I want him to say something about my dress, the one he used to love, but again he says nothing. It doesn’t bother me too much as I’m just so happy he’s here. Maybe after a glass of wine or two, he may relax a little more. He doesn’t look relaxed at the moment, all stiff and rigid.  

  “It’s been too long,” and I kiss the top of his head and turn away slowly so that he can see me properly. “I’ll get the food and the drink. It’s your favourite.” He says nothing but carries on staring. I’m not sure if he’s staring at me though. I hope so. I hope he’s looking right through me. I hope he’s having those naughty thoughts again.

  Be relaxed. Don’t scare him. You have all night.

   The food is a disaster. I’d read the instructions and I’m sure it had said I should slow-cook for eight hours, but when I take it out of the oven, it’s a dried-up mess. Carrots and peas and chicken all congealed into a brown gunge, but I can retrieve the best of it though. I was always able to do that. I quickly look at the instructions in the recipe book, but I can’t see anywhere now where it says it should cook for that long. I’m confused and I do what I normally do when I get stressed. I scratch the back of my head until I feel the blood ooze slightly. It no longer hurts when I do this now, and I find it relaxing. Can’t let him see it though, so I quickly rearrange my hair to cover the sore. It’s a shame I’m blonde because it shows more, but I’ll just make sure he’s looking at my face all of the time.

  After somehow scooping the mixture onto the plate and then covering it with tomato sauce, I feel I’ve rescued the meal. He won’t notice anyway, and there’s enough red wine to drown the taste. He doesn’t eat though. He stares at the plate and doesn’t eat.

  “Don’t you like it?” I ask in an innocent-girl like voice. I know he used to love me talking like that to him. “Well, I’ve been working all day on it, so you could at least try some.” He doesn’t, so I pour us both a large glass of red wine and I down mine in one. I needed that and it helps soothe my nerves as the sharp liquid warms my throat. I look back at him, and his eyes remain fixed on something. I can’t tell what it is he’s looking at.

  “Drink your wine,” I say too harshly, and I realise immediately that it sounded like an order, so I smile gently and reach over to touch his arm. “Please…”

  He doesn’t do that either but carries on staring ahead with that look on his face. I notice that his eyes are half closed, and I wonder how he can be tired already.

  “Are you alright? You’ve hardly said a word to me.”

  He doesn’t answer. I look at him and start to feel irritated. “I’ve been so much looking forward to tonight and I’ve put on my best dress, and I’ve put all my make-up on, and you haven’t said anything.”

  I’m accusing him now. 

  “I just feel you’re not really contributing to the evening.” Another glass of wine and I spill some down my dress as I gulp it down. It doesn’t matter because it’s the same colour and he doesn’t seem to notice anyway. I look at his face across the table and maybe the drink is having an effect but I’m sure I see one of his eyeballs fall onto the table. “Look what you’ve done. That’s not very nice at dinner, is it?” I reach over and pick it up and wrap it in a napkin. I think it’s an eyeball, but my vision is becoming too hazy. Anyway, we can’t have something like that on a dinner table.

  “You’ve changed,” I slur and gulp down another glass of wine. The bottle is nearly empty. “I used to love you, but you don’t even see me now.”

   I feel heavy-headed, and the night is not turning out the way I wanted it to. Again, I reach over to touch his face, but I accidentally grab his hair as I’m now feeling drunk. It comes away in my hand, leaving a black bald spot. He doesn’t look at all attractive anymore and I think my hopes for the evening are fading. I’m not sure what to do with the hair in my hand, and as I don’t want to offend him, I drop it to the floor and kick it under the table.

  “You could have at least made an effort. You look such a mess,” I sneer, and I swallow the remains of the bottle, red wine dripping down my chin. He used to like that. He said it was sexy. Now he doesn’t notice. I get angry and I can’t stop myself, so I stand up and slap his cheek hard, just like I used to when he annoyed me. His head moves to one side at an odd angle and stays there. He just looks stupid.

  “I’m glad I’ve found out what kind of man you are…” I shout, and I stand up and get ready to smash the bottle over his head again. The last time I did that, he stopped what he was doing, and he didn’t do it again. I reach for the bottle, which had fallen over, but then I feel myself held by two strong arms and I’m pulled to the ground. There are men and women in my flat and I don’t know where they’ve come from or how they got in. They look like the police, but one of them has started being sick in the corner and a lady is screaming down her phone for assistance. What is wrong with them? I feel metal against my wrists and someone whispering in my ear that we have to leave the flat immediately. I don’t understand and I look at him for help. He does nothing again.

  What has he done? What is my love guilty of? I don’t know but I say something like ‘I don’t know what I ever saw in him,’ but nobody laughed. There’s a blue light flashing outside, and I can hear a commotion as my neighbours are trying to see what has happened, but I don’t care about them. They never cared about me.

  I’m taken into an ambulance as if I’m injured or something and then strapped to a bed. I don’t complain because it’s nice to lie down and I feel very drunk so sleep will be good for me. I then hear one of the women say that she is giving me an injection to make me relax and I don’t care. It’s been a terrible evening anyway. Just before I drift away though, I hear someone say that my love had been sat at the table for weeks probably, but that’s not true. That’s not true at all. I know that because I only put him there this morning before I went to work.  

  The nurse looks at me, but she doesn’t smile. I watch as her features gradually disappear.

  I close my eyes and calm my mind.